Current mood:	cold
Current music:	"The Horizon's Always Endless" - Defining Moment

Title: Ever and A Day [1/4]
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Bert/Quinn
Summary: Bert goes away to rehab, and comes home to find that with sobriety comes awareness.
POV: Second-Person [Bert]
Notes: Written to kill my Writer's Block. Dedicated to underxumbrellas for being uber sexy and eating conformists.

Ever and A Day


Four months.


That’s one hundred twenty-two days, two thousand nine hundred twenty-eight hours, and one hundred seventy-five thousand six hundred eighty minutes. You know this, because he actually worked it out on paper, the day before you left. It’s a mouthful, and he prefers to call it “forever”. That’s how long he’s been waiting. Waiting for you.


If there’s one thing you know about him, it’s that he has an infinite amount of patience when it comes to you. He often jokes about how you’re “a pain in the ass” (you think it’s true), but he never seems to mind. In those days, when you spent your nights purging the treasured poisons from your stomach, he’d hold back your hair and rub your back, singing soft words into your ear.


That time seems so far away now. It wasn’t so long ago, you know, but things are so different now. You’re different now. You can remember everything you did yesterday, and most of the things from last week, and it brings a smile to your face. You remember. Memories as clear as the night sky, and the full, glossy moon that casts a comforting glow over the neighborhood.


"It’s the same as when I left," you murmur. And indeed it is—the same quaint home you share, with the worse-for-wear car parked in the driveway and the mailbox covered in tacky Sharpie drawings. Running your fingers gently over the dusty hood of the car, you giggle a bit, writing ‘WASH ME’ with your fingertip. Everything is exactly the same. And it feels like home.


Humming softly to yourself, you saunter up the worn walkway, suitcase in hand, immediately stricken by nostalgia. The feel of his palm warm against yours, the subtle feel of lips against the curve of your neck... it’s all terribly poetic, you think, and you feel like writing a song. You think he’d like that. "Music is the best aphrodisiac," he told you once with that million-dollar grin.


"And handcuffs don’t hurt either."


Chuckling, his voice still ringing pleasantly in your mind, you slip a hand into your pocket, waiting to hear the familiar clink of metal. After a few moments of fruitless searching, you check the other, smirking triumphantly when you retrieve your keys. You take your time sliding the appropriate key into the lock, rewarded with a soft click.


It’s dark when you step inside. This immediately strikes you as odd—upon checking your watch, you discover that it’s still quite early in the evening. Still, there is a sliver of moonlight streaming in from a window, and as your eyes adjust accordingly, your jaw drops with an imaginary creak. Because he’s there...


But he isn’t alone.


His back arches with an almost grace, a melodic whimper escaping his kiss-swollen lips. Lips that are now pressed hungrily against another’s, his slightly sun-kissed skin illuminated beautifully in the ethereal lighting. You feel ill as another small moan reaches your ears, foreign hands tracing the small of his back. And when you find your voice, you’ve lost your composure.


"What the fuck Quinn?"


Immediately, he leaps up at the sound of your voice, meeting your livid gaze with a small gasp. To your astonishment, he runs towards you with outstretched arms and a bright smile, as though there isn’t a half-naked man that isn’t you sitting up slowly on the couch. His voice is slightly breathless, and his touch sends unpleasant shivers throughout your body as he hugs you tightly.


Placing both palms upon his chest, you shove him violently, watching with slight satisfaction as he stumbles back in surprise. You search his eyes for remorse, and, upon finding none, look towards your replacement. "Get out," you spit viciously, "get the fuck out." Without a single word of protest, you feel him brush past you, gone with a whisper of, "It meant nothing."


"Bert, I missed you so much, baby." His words anger you—he seems to forget that you just walked in on him sharing what is for you only. Your stomach lurches violently, and you feel just like you did all those nights ago. Sick. So, so sick. It’s all wrong, you think. He offers a smile, which you refuse to return. Your words are laced with unmasked venom, sweetened only by your pain.


"You told me you’d wait."


"I did, I waited for so long... He said you wouldn’t come back, but I knew—"


"You promised you’d fucking wait for me."


"I did, Bertie. It’s been so long... I-I was so alone without you, and..."


"So, what? Did you just forget me?"


"I-I’d never—"


An icy glare silences him instantly. The one person who believed in you, the one who you shared so many bleak days with, the one who gave you a reason to live... Gulping quietly, he stares past you, whispering broken apologies. You don’t hear a single one of them, shaking your head again. He steps towards you, wincing unconsciously as you step back, lowering your gaze.


"I... I love you. I knew you could do it... I never..."


You decide then that you’ve heard enough. Clenching your jaw, you gradually raise an arm, pointing towards the door. "Go, now," you hiss, and he’s shocked by the finality of your words. He gives you a blank look, and you almost feel guilty. After a few moments, he nods, looking almost like a scolded child, and leaves without protest. As he rests a hand on the cold brass of the doorknob, he utters just three words.


"I still believe."


And he walks out of the door.


Long after he’s gone, you make your way to the bedroom (careful not to spare the couch a single glance), standing motionless in the doorway. Because it’s not the same, it’s not the same, it’ll never be the same. Sinking to your knees, a soft breath escapes your lips, deafening in the silence. And you think it’s ironic, because you remember.


You remember everything.



go to chapter 2.